Rod Beck was more than a name, a number and an arm

July 05, 2007|By Bill O'Connell, Tribune staff reporter

Please forgive me, Rod Beck.

I had no idea that you were respected and loved by your teammates; that you treated superstars and the guy sitting on the next bar stool equally; that you were a fearless, selfless competitor; that your presence lit up locker rooms, family rooms and barrooms; that you were the consummate Everyman and a loving family man; that you would have played the game for meal money and required only a handshake to seal the deal; that you hugged and kissed kids with AIDS for goodness' sake.

Rod, I only knew you as the guy who spoiled the 1998 season when your ragged right arm and my beloved Cubs limped into the playoffs and lost to the Braves.

Rod, that off-season, everyone talked about your career-high 51 saves. To those who praised you, I countered, "Check the box scores the final month of the season," when your 83 m.p.h. fastball rattled around Wrigley like a pinball. Shoot, "Shooter," you were our closer, but down the stretch you couldn't close a book without it having a bad ending.

Shooter, when the Cubs re-signed you to a fat contract that winter, I never gave you a shot at redemption. I exorcised you, your rocking arm, your protruding belly, your Fu Manchu mustache and your menacing stare. I didn't watch or listen to one Cubs game the entire 1999 season. Didn't check a box score. Didn't glance at an ESPN highlight.

That lost season came and went. More time passed, Rod, and I tempered my disdain for you in 2003 when you, while you were recovering from surgery, joined the Triple-A Iowa Cubs, lived in an RV beyond the outfield fence and opened your down-home world to all comers.

After you left this life two weeks ago, Rod, I absorbed eulogy after eulogy that praised you as a player and a person. I realized that I was the one who had dropped the ball in 1998, when I gave up on you.

Rod, I now understand that your legacy has nothing to do with wins and losses. You will be remembered for the vivacity with which you embraced life, not for the velocity of your fastball.